Deadlocked

A finger taps and then another

Recalling all you ever did, said, taught

The ear-piece lying astray gawks at me

Mocking my feeble advances and aggressive tears

Sunshine yellow and pristine white

A few dresses untouched, cursed

Burn them, do I?

That coffee table across the café cries

Asks me to leave

“You don’t belong here” as if it yelled

And I dragged my feet outside

Head hung low, abreast the nasty wind

I walk, keep walking, still walking

..And yet never walked past by.

Debut Novel

Speaking about my debut novel 'Red is for Love, Black is for Kohl'  tomorrow at the World book fair, Pragati Maidan!

Venue: Hall 1 A
Time: 5.00 PM- 6.00 PM
Event hosted by Lifi Publications.

Drop by?

http://www.newdelhiworldbookfair.gov.in/authorscorner.php

I am afraid.

Don’t ask me why I wore a skirt

Ask them why the mother’s legs

Didn’t make their penis wander about

And violate her modesty, like they did mine.

Don’t ask me why I was out at night

Ask them about the working sister

She is out still, oblivious about the lecherous brothers

Oblivious there might be another eyeing her

She is me, she has a cunt.

If you can’t do this, give me a scar in the face

That never goes

That reminds you, me

Of the wounds that bleed on the outside

As much as they do inside

And reminds everyone with a cunt

That she will always be ‘the other’

Because today I am afraid

Of the empty house

Of the dark night

Of the lonely corridor

Of a shadow nearing mine

Of walking back to the house,

In a slow pace

Today I am afraid

Of half the human race.

Liberation

Make me insignificant.

Like a drop in an ocean,
I want to lose my identity.

A face in the crowd nobody recollects
No names, no tags, no testimony to attest
An existence that I ever beheld.

Erase me from your memory
Let go of all that reads, speaks, feels akin me
I want liberation.

Void stored, Life drained.

Numb you stand and watch

While they take away all you had

No tears will suffice

To bring it back

And then you will stand and watch

Your blood wailing in pain

No words but shriek escaping lips

Eyes blood shot and senses will quit

Only comprehension that remains

Will be synonymous to pain

Muscles will fail you

There won’t be much you could do

Feeble, hopeless, grey you sit

In an empty room, just emptied

With walls that smell and speak of a presence

Whose absence now, forever will prick

This ache will crawl up your toes

Will penetrate your skin, diffusing into the blood

Until it hasn't had fun inflicting your wound

As you twist and turn crying

Which will never be enough

And life will bring you down to your knees

“Bite the dust, you took for me granted”

It will announce and laugh and mock at your pride

Its time you knew, it wasn't yours to ride

You pay the rent and leave one day

A few tears, a day and it will continue its play

Fair or not, it’s not for you to say

Who are you? What are you, anyway?!

The feet.

Little feet, crawling

Mouth, the only reception

Eyes watching, witnessing lies

Ears listening cries

Little feet learn

For they let them.

Not so little feet, escaping

Hiding in the dark

Too much light, too real a reality

Succumbing to their way

Not so little feet walk over

Pulling down anything between their path

Not so little feet have learnt

For they let them.

The old feet, at rest

No zeal, no time, no place to run

Old feet, make patters in the dust

Old eyes look, introspect

Of wasted miles, of wasted suns

Old eyes shut, they won’t open

The old feet unlearn

And they let them.

The old woman, the old man.

Held his petite fingers

They kissed his forehead

Filmed him take his first ever steps

At around their knees he would prance

Pulling on grandma’s hair

With grandpa’s glasses he would play along

‘Ride me on your back grandpa'

And the old man would kneel

'Sing me a sleep song granny'

And her breaking voice sung melodies

Today it’s his twelfth birthday

All his friends are home

The old man, the old lady though would sit alone

In a place un-cherished and unknown

Holding on to a knitted sweater

With the grandson’s name sewed in blue

She wipes a silent tear

Trickling down grandpa’s cheek

Holding his arm, just being there

Looking at the broken wooden door

In a rickety old harbour for aged

They wait for their son to pick them up

For the place which was once their home

Winter, the only season their life understands

Whilst they sit and wait to transcend

To a world where there is no place

To a world with no time

Where they can watch down from the skies

Their grandson singing the rhymes

They once sung to him

Before the transient nature of time

Turned the ones they raised

Forgetful and unkind